


Harder and Harder to Breathe

by peggy_lane



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, M/M, Minor Violence, Rimming, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggy_lane/pseuds/peggy_lane
Summary: Jensen escapes prison and picks up his nineteen-year old stepbrother Jared for a road trip through the end of the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riyku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/gifts).



> Written for the SPN XMas Exchange for Riyku from the prompt "This might be their last night on earth." With a huge thank you to Tipsy_Kitty for the beta.

——

_Hello Jensen,_

_I know I’ve never written you before, so this might come as a surprise. You probably don’t remember me as much more than a kid, if you remember me at all. The last time I saw you, you were being dragged out of the house in handcuffs. I remember seeing your shadow against flashing blue lights before they pushed you into the police car and that was it. I guess it’s fair to say you’re the more memorable of the Padalecki-Ackles kids._

_I was going to make the trip to Bradshaw to talk to you in person, but they said you’re transferring here to Dominguez and it’ll be a while before you can have visitors again. It’ll be easier now that you’re closer to home. I’ll come see you soon if you want. But I figured this letter would make it to you quicker._

_Anyway, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just let you know that your dad and my mom are gone. They came down with the virus. Medical came and took them to quarantine. I never found out exactly where, one of the centers outside Dallas probably. I got word a few days later that they didn’t make it. Maybe you already know about this, but with the way things are lately, I can’t be sure you’ve been told. So I figured I’d tell you myself._

_I know you and your dad haven’t always gotten along, and you wouldn’t let him visit you, but he was a good stepdad to me. He told me one time that maybe things would have worked out differently for you if he’d been any kind of father at all. I guess it’s too late for regrets. They were happy together and even though you didn’t know her well, mom would have welcomed you back with open arms. That’s the truth and I hope you believe it._

_The world’s gone to shit, as I’m sure you’re aware, and life and death don’t seem to matter as much as they used to. But I guess you’re the only family I’ve got now, for however long either one of us will last. The way things are, you may be safer in prison than I am out here. And I hope you are safe. I hope you’re well._

_Sincerely,_

_Jared_

——

Jensen sits alone in his small, plain cell and reads the letter, memorizes Jared’s boxy handwriting, the smudged blue ink of his signature. He doesn’t cry over his dad because Jared is right. Life and death don’t matter as much as they used to. He probably wouldn’t have cried even back when they did.

Jensen does remember Jared. He remembers the awkward eleven-year old kid he first met at his old man’s fourth wedding. "This is Jared, your new stepbrother." Remembers how Jared watched him with a childish kind of awe, like he couldn’t believe his new brother had tattoos and a muscle car, that he was a grown man who came and went as he pleased.

Later, when he was on the run and needed a place to stay, Jensen crashed on the couch at his dad’s and stepmom’s. Jared must have been around fifteen. Jensen remembers the way Jared looked at him then, too. Lots of boys, from eleven to seventy, have looked at Jensen like that. Lots of girls, too.

He keeps the letter for a week, reads it again and again, folds it into the smallest square he can manage and squirrels it away inside a hole in his mattress. Once he can recite the whole thing from memory in his head—from _Hello Jensen_ to _Sincerely, Jared_ —he tears it up into tiny little pieces, like confetti. And he flushes it down, a bit at a time. 

——

Breaking out of prison is easier than Jensen imagined. A year ago, it would have been harder, nearly impossible, even from his cushy roadside work detail. But there are fewer guards now than there used to be. The ones who remain are meaner, of course. Everybody is. But they’re sloppier, too. The two on duty let themselves be distracted by a car chase passing by fast on the otherwise deserted highway and the sound of a crash over the bridge.

Almost on instinct, Jensen makes a run for it. Eventually, they come for him. From the distant sound of barking dogs, they seem to be heading west now and he’s going north. He’s going to get away with this, he thinks. He’s going to be free. After four years, two months, and six days as a custodian of the Texas Department of Corrections, Jensen’s free. And for the first time in four years, two months, and six days, he doesn’t know what happens next.

He scoops water from the drying relic of some old creek and drinks it from his cupped hands, too thirsty to care that it tastes like mud.

A smart man would double back, head south toward Mexico.

_…you’re the only family I’ve got now, for however long either one of us will last…._

Jensen stays the course and heads home to San Antonio instead.

——

Even in San Antonio, mid-afternoon on a weekday, there aren’t many cars on the road. Not on the highway when he passes under it or on the back roads he navigates in the stolen Honda Civic.

The same graffiti tag shows up over and over, on abandoned cars, buildings, and bridges, three letters – HDA. The letters stay the same but the sentiment changes:  Beware the HDA, God Bless the HDA, Fuck the HDA. On and on.

He’s seen the letters before, and wracks his brain to remember what they stand for. Homeland Something-Something. He doesn’t know why they’re important. Apparently, a lot of information has been kept from the prisoners. This isn’t the world he knew before.

Sure, he’s seen the headlines. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions now, lost to the global virus and the civil unrest that followed. Sometimes the talking head on the rec room TV claimed things were stabilizing, sometimes that everything was going to hell.

Even in prison, things changed. Early paroles, guards disappearing. There were rumors of a riot at Bradshaw that took the whole place down after Jensen transferred out.

So he expected things to be different, but he had no way of knowing it had come to this, empty city streets and a smell that seeps in through the car vents like somebody’s janky backyard barbecue, rotting liver burning on a dirty grill. Static on the radio.

Jensen remembers the family home in Beacon Hill as old and nondescript in a neighborhood to match, the kind of place his dad could afford on his trucker’s salary. The kind of place a woman like Jared’s mom would be content to come home to after a long day cutting hair. 

The street is emptier now than he remembers it, but there are signs of life, a flicker of shutters from the house across the street, one lone kid pedaling down the road on a ten-speed.

Jensen jimmies open the backdoor lock and steps in; he looks around in the dim light that filters through the house’s small, curtained windows. Jared’s nowhere to be found. The return address on his letter listed it, but that letter was sent three months back or more. The kid’s not a kid anymore and his parents are gone. Why would he stay?

But the pictures scattered around the house, on side-tables and book cases, hanging by magnets on the fridge, are of their family. The big one on the mantle is obviously from Jared’s high school graduation. In it, Jared’s skinny and tall, taller than dad. He stands between their parents, big smiles all around.

Maybe Jared’s at college now, if people even go to college anymore. Maybe the house is paid for and Jared just crashes here on the weekends. Maybe he’ll walk through the door any minute.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe Jensen doesn’t know a damn thing about a damn thing.

He walks down the narrow hallway, past peeling paint and popcorn ceilings, to the master bedroom. It’s dusty, but everything is in its place. There’s another picture on the dresser. It’s of Jared’s mom, standing on some beach, probably down in Corpus Christi, and smiling into the camera, storm-gray ocean behind her, wind blowing her hair. She was quite a bit younger than Jensen’s father. Jensen bets she did make him happy.

He crosses the hall to Jared’s old room. The bed’s not made, books and papers are scattered. Jensen barely forms the thought _Jared’s been here recently_ , when the front door slams opens with a bang.

Jensen’s first thought is that the cops have found him. Escape prison on a whim, head straight to your last known address. Great idea, Ackles. Blessed with good looks and an attitude, but no fucking sense.

He backs himself into a corner behind Jared’s bedroom door and wishes for a gun. Or a teleporter. But he realizes quickly that his panic is premature. Those aren’t cops busting down the door out there. Cops wouldn’t be rummaging through the kitchen and speed talking. “Osric, no, just listen. I don’t know how long we’ll have this line.”

A pause, the clang of pots and pans, a muttered breath, “I know mom’s stash is in here somewhere.” Then, louder, “They got Chad.” The sound of glass breaking and a jubilant, “Yes, there it is.”

“I’m bugging out of town and so should you.” The voice is moving closer, down the hall and toward the bedroom. Jensen’s sure it’s Jared, but not how this will go. Should have maybe thought about that before showing up. Should have thought about why he came at all.

“I don’t think they’ve pinpointed us yet, but they’ve definitely traced everything at least to San Antonio. It’s only a matter of time before Chad gives us up.”

Then the voice, too loud and too fast, is in the room. Jensen waits a beat and steps out from behind the door but Jared—Jensen recognizes him now, from the picture on the mantle, from the trace that’s left of the boy he used to know— has his back to him. He pulls a duffel bag from under the bed, reaches over to pick up some metal contraption from the floor, and throws it in, along with a pile of clothes and a roll of cash.

“Something went wrong,” he’s saying into the phone. “They’re panicking. It’s going to get bad. Well, worse.”

Jared opens the night stand drawer, pulls out a revolver and a handful of bullets, checks the barrel quickly and clicks it back into place.

“Osric?” And again, clearly agitated. “Osric?” He turns around, finally, phone in one hand, gun in the other. “Fucking phone li…”

When he sees Jensen, Jared drops the phone. The gun, he swings and aims straight at Jensen’s chest. His hands look steady.

Jensen’s always been good in this type of situation. Adrenaline has a calming effect on him, danger never feels that dangerous, a response that’s gotten him into plenty of trouble. Hell, it’ll probably get him killed someday. But not today.

He steps toward Jared. “Do you even know how to use that thing, kid?”

“Come any closer and you’ll find out.”

Jared’s voice isn’t as steady. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s scared shitless. Jensen would bet money on it.

Jared’s a big guy— thin, sure—but tall enough that he still manages to take up more than his fair share of space. But he’s, what, nineteen? Yes, Jensen thinks. He’s twelve years younger, which makes him only nineteen. Still so young. Probably innocent in a way Jensen got over by the time he hit puberty, but he’s got a gun and he knows his way around it. That’s something.

Jensen raises his hands slowly, in sarcastic surrender, and waits for the moment of recognition.

It comes maybe half a second later when Jared squawks, “Jensen?”

There it is. Jensen nods.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jensen gestures to the gun. “Maybe lower that thing and we can talk about it.”

Jared takes a ragged breath and swallows hard, dropping down to sit on his mattress with a heavy thud. He looks Jensen up and down, then back up again.

“They let you out?”

Jensen grabs the gun and checks the safety before putting it in the waistband of his stolen jeans, at the small of his back.  Jared doesn’t fight him on it.

“Something like that.”

“You escaped.” Jared purses his lips and nods his head as if to say, _sure, why not_? “I can’t believe you came here.”

“Yeah, that’s two of us.”

Jared peers up at him through overgrown bangs. His crazy-colored eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why did you?”

“Shit if I know.”

Jensen wants a cigarette. Or a joint. Wants to be out on the open road, out of this house. Seems stupid now that he came. Jared’s watching him, waiting for the real answer.

“I guess because of your letter.”

“Letter? Oh, yeah, that. Shit.”

“Listen, kid, I’m sorry about your mom…”

Jared stands from the bed in a jerky motion and walks straight to Jensen, too close, too fast. “They’re not dead,” he says.

Jensen hates people in his personal space, but he’s too shocked to back away. “Then why did you write that?”

With a start and a shake of his head, Jared pulls back, spins in a circle, and rushes to his duffel bag. Suddenly he’s in whirling dervish mode again.  “I mean, I don’t think they’re dead.” Jared speaks like it’s an afterthought but Jensen knows better.

In that case, writing that letter seems like kind of a shitty move.

“Everything I said in the letter is what I was told,” Jared continues. “I just didn’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”

“What the fuck is going on, Jared?”

Jared checks his phone again and throws it in the bag. “Useless anyway,” he says. He doesn’t meet Jensen’s gaze, like he’s too busy to respond, like a fucking child _(if I can’t see you, you can’t see me)_.  So, Jensen steps to the bed in two strides, grabs the duffel and throws it behind him.

“I’ll use the gun if I have to,” he says.  The threat is empty, as Jared is no doubt aware, but Jensen lets his tone of his voice do the work of bringing Jared to attention. “Why did you tell me they were dead if you didn’t believe it?”

“Not believing the bullshit is the kind of thing that gets you deleted,” Jared says, finally standing still and looking Jensen in the eye. “So I sent you the letter. I knew they’d open it and figure that I believed their story.”

It’s good to know Jared has a sense of self-preservation at least. “Their bullshit. Who is ‘they’?”

“The HDA. They say they’re from the government, CDC, HHS, whatever shuts people up. But it’s a lie. They’re HDA.”

“And that means what exactly?”

Jared looks at Jensen like he’s a caveman who just emerged out of a block of melted ice. “Shit, man. How much did they keep from you guys in there?”

“Answer the question.”

“Homeland Defense Alliance.” Jared’s lips curl around the words like they taste bad.

“Like Homeland Security?”

“No, they pretend to be, or hope that everyone’s too scared to remember that they have no right to do the things they do. But they’re something else, some kind of fringe group that came together to ‘defend our borders from the plague.’ Blah blah blah.”

“And what do they really do?”

“They disappear people,” Jared bursts out, his voice loud and high. He swings his arms and makes a motion to go around Jensen and grab the bag from behind him. Jensen blocks the move with a quick sidestep and a hand to Jared’s chest. It’s firmer than he would have imagined.

“That’s pretty out there, Jared.”

“You’re an escaped convict standing in the middle of my bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you took my gun, and I’m the one who’s out there.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Jared pushes his hair from his forehead. It falls right back into his eyes.  “Look man, I hacked into the HDA network with my friends, saw shit I shouldn’t have, and now I’ve got some kind of fucking evil militia after me.”

“Right.”

 “So maybe I’m spazzing out for a good reason, all right?”

“Where’s my dad?”

“What?”

“You said it was a lie. They’re not dead, so where are they?” Jensen asks. “And why are you playing War Games instead of doing something about it?”

“That’s why I was playing War Ga-“

Jared breaks off and takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice lower and calmer. “Why I was hacking into their network. And I have a lead.”

“Which is?”

“I think there’s a camp where they took a bunch of survivors. They take them to some quarantine in Dallas. A lot of people die, but the ones who survive, they call them the product and they haul them off.”

“Where?”

“Different places. I think our parents were taken to Chicago.”

Jensen lets it sink in. He’s already come to terms with his dad’s supposed death. Truth be told, he doesn’t feel a huge need to look for him. If things are as bad as Jared says, as bad as he’s clearly seen for himself in the empty streets of his hometown, then this is the kind of stupid mission that marches better men than him straight into an early grave.

But there stands Jared, trying to seem casual, cool and brave. It’s clear his whole body’s thrumming with nerves.

Fine.

“Let’s go to Chicago then.” The same stupid impulse that led Jensen here pushes the words out of his mouth.

“It’s dangerous,” Jared tells him.

 _Yeah, no shit_ , Jensen thinks. But he doesn’t need to say it.

“If they’re not after me already,” Jared says, “they will be soon.”

“Join the club.” Jensen picks the heavy duffel bag off the floor and holds it out to Jared.

“You’re so calm.” Jared swings the bag up to his shoulder. “I remember after you robbed that bank, you must have known they were going to find you, but it was like you couldn’t care less.”

“I cared.”

Jared bites his lip and clenches his fingers into the strap of the bag. His nails are smooth but too stubby on his long fingers. He bites them but then he files them down to keep them neat. Jensen notices these things.

“I have to find them, Jensen. I’ve got to try at least.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing.” He looks down at the floor and practically scuffs his feet. “I’m worried.”

A surge of something rare and protective rushes through Jensen.

“Sounds like you could use your big brother.”

——

The pearl white Cadillac Escalade is parked diagonally with the front, right wheel jammed up on a curb, obviously abandoned in a hurry. The doors are unlocked and the key’s in the ignition. _The HDA Sank My Battleship_ is spray-painted on the passenger side in fat cartoon letters. Taking it is so easy, it can hardly be called stealing _._

They pull out the back seat and fill the space with bottled water, canned food and candy, and a collection of red gas cans Jared’s been filling and hoarding for a couple of weeks. Jared’s got his duffel bag full of crazy with him and Jensen figures he’ll pick up new clothes for himself along the way. He shoves the revolver in the front seat console and they take off before sunset. They keep watchful eyes on the rearview mirrors, but no one’s following them yet.  

Turns out, the metal contraption Jared threw in the bag back at the house was a CB radio. Jared sticks a small antenna on top of the car and turns the console on, fiddling with it endlessly while Jensen drives I-10 toward Amarillo.

TV and radio stopped broadcasting about a week ago, Jared tells him. Internet and cell service, even land lines, are unreliable. Stuck behind bars, Jensen hadn’t known or noticed any of it. Jared picked up the CB at a pawn shop, along with the gun and ammo, figuring both might come in handy along the way.

Jared offers to drive, but Jensen’s not going to give up the wheel, not anytime soon. Before today, he hadn’t driven in four years. But he’s been known to drive a getaway car once or twice in his life, so he figures he’s more suited to ditching anyone who decides to follow them.

Jensen squints against the orange diamond glow of the setting sun. He drives through the city, out into the half-desert, over the highway that cuts into stacked limestone carved high out of the land. Rolling hills with mountains far beyond, then flat land, dry, brown and warm. Too warm and too dry for December. A stiff wind blows dirt and tumble weed across the interstate.

“It’s like the goddamn dustbowl out here,” he says.

“It hasn’t rained in months now. Nobody knows why the weather changed,” Jared tells him. “Everybody’s got a theory though.”

Jared’s been watching Jensen like he’s waiting for an answer, glancing away every time Jensen catches his eye, back to his CB. His long thin fingers turn the dial over and over and he calls out _breaker-breaker-one-nine_ across all channels.

After about twenty minutes of this, Jensen has to say something. “You’re on channel twenty-three there, baby brother.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Technically, you should be screaming _breaker-breaker-two-three_ into the void, not one-nine.” 

Through the corner of his eye, Jensen catches Jared flushing pink, _so young and pretty_. He sets the radio on the floorboard, keeping it on and the channel open to receive, and slumps back in the seat, long legs spread wide. “Nobody’s answering anyway.”

“You can try again in a while. Somebody’s bound to pick up sooner or later.”

Jared leans his head against the passenger side window. “Yeah, I guess so.”

There are only a few other cars on the road. Their headlights come on when the sun sets, dotting the highway like fireflies. A few random house lights flicker on in distant little towns as they pass by.

It’s almost two in the morning when they exit onto old Route 66 and see a fire in the distance, as they head into Amarillo. Jared sits up in his seat to squint at it through the windshield. As they get closer, Jensen realizes that there are several small fires making up the blaze. It’s the back end of the cars at Cadillac Ranch, pushing up like trees out of the land, burning bright in a flat, brown field.

Jared huffs his breath and shakes his head, picks up the CB radio and fiddles with it some more. It’s still just static.

Maybe the world outside the prison walls would seem foreign to Jensen no matter the circumstances, strange and surreal, after years locked away. As it is, Jensen feels as though he’s trapped in a bubble with a boy he barely knows, but one he’s chosen to protect. And all he can do is watch as the world outside collapses in a haze of fire and dust.

——

They pull off road and sleep in the car. In the morning, they brush their teeth with bottled water, sharing Jared’s toothbrush. On the road, heading east across flat land and through oil fields, Jared scarfs down whole bag of gummi bears and starts to talk.

And talk. Sometimes it’s about the end of the world as they know it, about the “fucking fascists,” sometimes family and friends. How much he misses TV and the internet, something called Snap Chat that Jensen’s never heard of. Jared plugs his phone into the charger and tries to get WiFi, fiddles with the CB some more, gets nothing but static. And he talks all the while.

Maybe yesterday when they started this, Jared was in shock, scared for his life. But in the cold light of day, family by his side, and miles away from San Antonio, he’s a nonstop force of nature.

It’s the kind of thing that would normally bug the shit out of Jensen, but it’s all right somehow, more than okay. Enticing. He even laughs now and then, the sound foreign and dry to his own ears, a kind of rusty _heh-heh_ that embarrasses him. Not that Jared seems to mind.

Mid-morning, they drive by the lone figure of a man, a dark and distant form against a backdrop of bobbing oil wells. Jared points at him. “Guess you could say that man’s outstanding in his field.”

He looks at Jensen and laughs. “Get it? He’s out _standing_ in his field.”

Jensen gets it. “I’m not encouraging your bad puns.”

“Bad?” Jared goes back to the CB with a mock pout.

“I wonder what his story is?” Jared says after another round of breaker-breaker, long after they’ve passed the man by. “Some dude just standing out there by himself. Haven’t seen another soul for miles, no cars in a while. Did you notice that?”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

It’s easy to be distracted by Jared’s constant patter, by the wheels spinning beneath them, the hypnotic stretch of old road. But there’s a part of Jensen that’s still behind bars and barbed wire fences, simultaneously alert for trouble and bored out of his mind. And alone, no matter the company. Maybe he’s a bit like that man.

“Um, Jensen.” Jared finger taps the CB radio that sits on his lap, but keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead of them. “If you want to talk about anything. I mean, I know prison must have been--“

“No.”

Jared nods and draws a breath, makes a noise like he’s going to say more, when there’s a loud gasp of static on the CB and a voice from the speaker, already in mid-sentence…

_‘…when it’s going to happen, don’t know exactly where, but it’ll be soon and you’ll need to take shelter, wait it out…’_

The voice, deep and scratchy, takes them both by surprise. The handset slips out of Jared’s hand before he picks it up again and calls out.

“Hello, are you there? Where are you?”

The man on the other end doesn’t hear Jared or ignores him. _‘…meet us on the other side, if you live long enough. There’s strength in numbers…’_

“Damnit,” Jared says, laying on the switch with his thumb and raising his voice. “Where?” He asks. “Who are you?”

‘ _Stay safe out there_ ,’ the voice says before cutting out again. It’s unclear if the man on the other end heard Jared at all.

——

Could the man be calling from miles away or does he need to be within a certain range? Jensen doesn’t know how these old CBs work really, and neither does Jared. It’s not like they can Google it, so they play it safe and try to stay within some imaginary close distance of the voice on the radio.

Jensen takes each exit into small, dusty, country towns. He drives slowly and stops for supplies and gas along the way. Sometimes they find someone still manning a register, but nobody is willing to say much.  There might be hundreds or thousands or millions still surviving like the people they run into, living in denial and staying as small and quiet as possible.

Jared doesn’t bring up prison again. He doesn’t say much, really, except, “Breaker-breaker, are you still there?” Calling out to the man on the radio. He’s focused and still. He bites his hard candy teeth into his pink bottom lip until it bruises and swells. Jensen shouldn’t notice that, but he does.

After a day of driving in lazy detours and doubling back more than once, he finally gives up and takes a straight line up toward Tulsa. Not long after, the voice finally comes through again.

_‘People try to reach me on this thing. I get it. They want answers. They want to tell me what’s up. But that’s not how this works. That’s not how this works at all. I talk…’_

There’s a deliberate pause and a heavy sigh breathed loud enough they can hear it through the static.

_“…and you listen.”_

“Prick,” Jared says.

Jensen agrees. “Fucking asshole.”

——

Tulsa looks like a ghost town that was abandoned in the middle of a riot. Trash blows by in the streets, cars and trucks are overturned. There’s a strange kind of stillness in the air that intensifies as night falls. The only artificial light for miles is the flickering fluorescent glow from underneath a Shell station’s metal canopy.

There are some signs of life. A small group of young men running through the streets, probably up to no good. The flicker of candlelight peeking through shutters. None of it is welcoming.

On the other side of town, they finally see a roadside motel with a light on. As Jensen pulls in, the voice comes over the CB again, loud and clear.

_‘Maybe you’re worried they’re on your tail, but the truth is, they’re way ahead of you.’_

“Looks like somebody’s in there,” Jared says, as if the voice never spoke.

Left to his own devices, Jensen would probably pick the lock to one of the rooms and make himself at home without bothering to check in. Instead, he follows Jared to the motel’s front office, tucking the gun into his waistband, on guard for trouble.

What they find is an old, fat, slumped-over man putting together a jigsaw puzzle at the reception desk. He looks up when the doorbell chimes.

“Well, will you look at that?” His voice is soft and high. “Real life paying customers, as I live and breathe.”

Jensen stays back by the door, happy to let Jared do the talking.

 “We’ve been on the road for a while,” Jared tells the man. “What’s the news?”

“Nothing worth reporting. But was there ever?”

“TV?” Jared asks. “Internet?”

“Nope. And no rain for months.”

Jared pulls a couple of twenties out of his pocket and sets them down. “Is that enough?”

The man looks over to Jensen. Jensen tries to look like trouble and he guesses it works because the man slides a twenty back to Jared. “I don’t think we’re going to get audited anytime soon.”

Jared gives his thanks and takes the key to a double, Room 23, at the back of the motel.

They bring a couple of camping lanterns into the room with them, the better to see the hotel’s seventies-era décor by. The sheets are probably retro, too. No use thinking about how many bodily fluids they’ve seen. Jensen locks the door and props a chair up under the handle while Jared heads to the bathroom.

Later, after he’s brushed his teeth and splashed some cold water on his face, Jensen comes out of the bathroom to find Jared sitting up in bed, listening to the static from the CB. His clothes are crumpled in a pile on the floor. Jensen can’t help the way his eyes flicker down to check out Jared’s bare chest. Jared’s all long, lean muscle and Jensen shouldn’t be thinking about that but it’s only a thought, right? Nothing worth beating himself up over. 

When Jensen strips off his own shirt and pushes down his jeans, he feels Jared’s gaze on him. It’s probably not his imagination, but it could be. He refuses to look at Jared again to find out for sure until he’s settled in his own bed.

Jared’s being awfully quiet, especially for Jared, so Jensen decides to say something.

“We’ll head out again first thing in the morning.”  

That earns a grunt and a nod. Clearly the gears are turning in Jared’s head so Jensen waits him out.  He slides down onto his back and feels his eyes grow heavy.

“I know you don’t want to go to Chicago,” Jared finally says.

“You’ve got that right.”

It’s a fool’s errand. Jensen truly believes that. And maybe he’s a shit heel for not caring enough to risk his life to save his father and his stepmother, but the fact of the matter is, he’s only doing this for Jared’s sake.

Jared turns on his side to face Jensen.

 “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Never said you were.”

“But you don’t think we’ll find them.”

“I don’t know one way or the other,” Jensen says.

“You don’t think we should go.”

“I think it’s a risk.”

“I know we probably won’t find them,” Jared admits. “And ‘go to Chicago’ isn’t exactly a well thought-out plan. But I have to try. I owe them that much.”

“And you’re sure they’re still alive?”

“Pretty sure.”

“You were sure those HDA guys would be after us, too,” Jensen points out. “And there aren’t any signs of them.”

Jared shifts under the covers and looks up at the ceiling. “Maybe we got lucky.”

“No such thing.”

“You’re not changing your mind, are you?” Jared asks.

“Don’t worry, baby brother.” Jensen reaches over and switches off the lantern, pitching the room to black. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Jared doesn’t answer. His mattress creeks as he turns in the bed and a few minutes later, he’s snoring. After a while, Jensen falls asleep, too, but fitfully, within reach of the gun.

——

Driving through northeastern Oklahoma, they see more gently rolling hills and farmland than flat, brown plains and oil wells. But it’s still too fucking hot and dry for December. Joplin, Missouri is the next town of any size on the map, then on to Saint Louis and up to Chicago. It won’t take them long.

Jensen would rather head for the coast. Any coast. Or they could find a mountain cabin somewhere in the Ozarks. The closer they get to Chicago, the more antsy he feels.  

Mid-morning, the voice comes through on the CB radio.

 _‘Had a little bad luck last night and I’ve decided one thing and one thing only is true_ ,’ the man says. ‘ _Don’t stick your neck out for anybody. That has always been the case, but it is especially so now_.’

That’s good advice. But Jensen’s starting to think his only path— the only thing that makes sense to him now—is to find one person who’s worth sticking his neck out for and goddamn the rest.

“Is it me,” Jared asks, leg bouncing with his usual suppressed energy, “or is that guy starting to sound like a fucking soap opera?”

They stop at a Safeway in some little town a couple of hours outside Tulsa.  Jared finds a big bag of Gummi Bears and Jensen finds a pack of cigarettes.

When they step out of the store, they hear the screech of tires before they see a dark sedan speeding around the corner of the building and heading straight for them. Jensen steps back, pushing Jared behind him with one hand while he grips the revolver with the other.

The sedan makes a sudden, lurching stop, right between them and the Escalade. The driver’s door opens and a man rushes out. He’s looking for trouble if the gun he’s pulling is any indication. He steps in front of his car and faces them, gun pulled and cocked. So Jensen raises his gun, too.  

The man’s probably in his fifties and he has Fed written all over him, complete with rumpled suit and a cheap haircut.  The three of them look at each other for a long moment, waiting each other out. Jared breaks first.

“Um, hi.” He moves to stand between the two raised guns. Jensen’s going to kill him if the stranger in the suit doesn’t beat him to it.

Jared’s hands are up and out, all conciliation. “Hey, you just surprised us is all,” he says. “You can put the gun down. We’re just passing through.”

The man ignores him and throws Jensen a stingy, crooked smile.

“Sweet,” he says.

Jensen doesn’t look away, he doesn’t lower his gun, and he doesn’t ask the man what the fuck he means by that.

“I’m talking to you, Jensen.” The man enunciates his words, sing-songy and slow. “Your stepbrother here’s really sweet, isn’t he?”

The condescending asshole knows exactly who they are. It’s a problem, but Jensen feels the old adrenaline kicking in, the kind that makes everything click into place, all smoothed-out edges and crystal clear like glass.

“You didn’t think we were just going to let you get away, did you?”

Jensen motions with the gun for Jared to get behind him, but Jared doesn’t move. He’s bug eyed and scared but he stands there for some reason.

The man looks at Jared. “Huh, Jared?”

“What?”

“You didn’t think we were just going to let you get away with hacking into our network.”

“Jared,” Jensen says. “Get behind me.”

Jared doesn’t move.

“Gotta admit, the jailbird brother was a touch we didn’t see coming. Most escaped prisoners are either dead or roaming free these days, but you had to go hook up with your sweet little brother here, huh, Ackles? Well, stepbrother.” The man laughs like a creep. “No blood relation.”

Jared takes a step toward the man, looking for all the world like he’s planning to do something really fucking stupid.

“How did you find us?” Jensen asks, hoping to interrupt Jared’s plans. “Nobody was tailing us.”

“We’re way ahead of you boys,” the man says. “You should have kept your nose out of our business.”

“Where’s my mom?” Jared asks.

“Dead.”

“Liar.”

From his expression, the man doesn’t seem to appreciate Jared’s bluntness. Jensen’s certain things are going to go sideways real soon and his only choice is to try to get between Jared and the man, pull him away forcibly if he has to. It’s not like Jared’s going to listen to reason, or slow down to think it through. Fucking nineteen-year old.  

No sooner does he form the thought that Jared’s going to get him both killed when the man says, “Sorry about your dead mommy, kid.”

And in a flash, Jared’s rushing the guy. As anyone with an ounce of sense would expect, the man squeezes off a shot. Jensen doesn’t see where it hits, but Jared spins with the impact.

Fuck fuck fuck. Jensen doesn’t think, just unloads one bullet into the guy’s chest, then two, then three. He watches him go down to his knees with a crack and a satisfying thud before falling forward on the ground.

Jared’s still upright, holding onto his right shoulder, eyes wide with shock.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” Jensen hears the calm in his own voice, but the adrenaline isn’t soothing him anymore. Jared is hurt and bleeding and turning paler by the second. “Get in the fucking car.”

——

The voice comes over the CB. ‘ _Wherever you go, there you are. Just hold on tight, as long as you can.’_

“I’m trying, asshole.” Jared’s voice is high and reedy, full of false bravado.

But Jensen smiles at him anyway, as he hightails it out of the parking lot. They need to ditch the car, along with the CB radio and Jared’s useless cell phone. Anything that can be traced. And they really need to find a doctor. Surely there’s a hospital or an urgent care nearby with somebody left to tend to bullet wounds and scared, high-strung, infuriating, indignant nineteen-year old boys. But he can’t take the chance. They’ve been found once, they can be found again.

“You hangin’ in there, Jared?”

Jared gives it the old Monty Python try. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

Jensen doesn’t know if he’s buying it. Blood is seeping through Jared’s flannel shirt and he’s pale as death. He’s gripping his injured shoulder and the blood is staining his left hand red. 

Not Jared, Jensen thinks. Don’t do this to him. Can’t lose him. His own thoughts sound like a melodrama in his head, but Jensen can’t control his growing sense of panic. The best he can do is keep it to himself.

“It hurts like hell,” Jared says. “But I think it’s on the outside of my shoulder, like a graze or something.”

“We should get you a doctor.”

“No, we should get me to a box of Band-Aids.” Jared shifts in his seat and winces. “Preferably the kind with cartoon characters on them, you know? Like Disney Band-Aids.”

“Sure, pretty princesses.”

Jensen checks the rearview mirrors approximately every half second, but no one’s following them. An old truck passes them on the road and he twists around to watch it continue in the other direction.

Jared says something low, in a small, weak voice that Jensen doesn’t quite catch. Then he says it again.

“Shangri-La.”

He must be loopy from blood loss. Jensen’s about to say as much when he looks over and follows Jared’s gaze to a roadside sign that reads: _30 Miles to Shangri-La. Lake and Golf Resort, Afton, Oklahoma._

“I’ve always wanted a lake and golf resort vacation,” Jared says.

Jensen drives until he sees an old abandoned truck near a farmhouse. The keys are nowhere to be found, but Jensen’s able to hotwire it. He abandons the Escalade, transferring only the necessary supplies, gas cans, food, camping equipment, and Jared, into their new ride.

The whole operation takes less than five minutes, then they’re on the road again. He detours long enough to throw the radio and the cell phone out of the window and doubles back to the main road, trying to outrun nightfall, heading into Shangri-La.

——

Jensen follows the signs down a gravel road surrounded by empty fields and old country fences. Miles later, he’s wondering if the place even exists, when seemingly out of nowhere, Shangri-La comes into view. It’s a fairly modern looking resort, situated in the middle of a golf course that overlooks Grand Lake.

He does a quick walkthrough of the main building before bringing Jared inside. The place doesn’t have electricity. No people either, at least not on the first floor. The elevators are out of commission, and Jensen blocks the doors to the stairwells in case anyone’s lurking upstairs.

Once everything is checked out, he walks Jared in from the truck and back to the large professional kitchen. He plops Jared down on a chair by the sink and goes looking for a better First Aid kit than the one they have with them. It doesn’t take long to find it, along with some clean towels from a storage room and a bottle of tequila from the lounge.

Back in the kitchen, Jared’s managed to get his shirt off. A thin sheen of sweat covers his skin and he’s leaned back at an awkward angle, holding a couple of paper towels over the gun shot. He’s singing softly to himself through puffs of pained breath. It takes Jensen a minute to make out words.

“Is there anyone out there, ‘cause it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.”

There’s a whole song that goes with that lyric, but Jared must not know it. He sings the same line over and over. “Is there anyone out there, ‘cause it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.”

Jensen pulls up a chair and prepares to clean the wound.

“Hey, man,” Jared says. “Not feeling too good.”

Jensen hands him the bottle of tequila. “Drink up.”

Jared takes a swig, sputtering and coughing as expected, while Jensen peels away the paper towels and gets his first good look at the injured shoulder.

Thankfully, Jared was right. It’s a superficial wound, a jagged deep groove in the meat of Jared’s shoulder. It’ll leave a scar, but the bullet didn’t lodge. Jensen feels almost lightheaded with relief even as Jared gets his first look at it and sways in the chair.

“Ever tell you I can’t stand the sight of my own blood?”

“No.”

Jared laughs. “Never knew until now.”

Jensen soaks a clean rag in some water from the cooler and dabs the wound while Jared makes pained faces and takes big, ugly gulps of tequila, his Adam’s Apple bobbing.

“This is going to hurt.” Jensen douses gauze in rubbing alcohol and presses it to the wound.

Jared hisses. “Man, the world sure does suck these days, doesn’t it?” he grits out.

Focused on the task at hand, Jensen only nods in agreement. Jared starts to tremble, still breathing hard through the pain.

He’s going to be fine. Jensen knows that. He’s survived worse injuries himself. But it’s Jared. The kid he met eight years back was pure sunshine. The horny fifteen-year old he knew before he got hauled off to prison was awkward and intense.

And the last couple of days, on the run together. Well that’s something else. Jared’s _it_ right now. The only thing in front of him that makes any sense at all. Still awkward. Still sunshine. And all too necessary.

All Jensen wants is to extinguish the fear in Jared’s eyes, the pained tremors that course through his body even as he starts to go slack with alcohol and spent adrenaline.

“Hey, Jared. Stick with me, okay?”

Jared hums a little breath and slides down in the chair.  

“So, uh, remember when you asked me about prison?”

He asks the question in desperation, to snap Jared back to attention. Jared answers with a garbled, “Huh – what?”, and a twitch that seems to travel his whole spine, all fifteen feet of it.

“You wanted to know, right?”

“Only if you wanted to tell me.” Jared sits up straighter, but his voice is still tight with pain.

“I guess people really only want to know one thing when they ask about prison.” Jensen pulls Jared’s left hand over to hold the gauze to his shoulder while he looks through the kit for the right bandage. “So, you know, I haven’t done anything I didn’t want to in four years.”

He doesn’t mention those first two months behind bars. Jared is perfectly still and perfectly quiet.

“Also.” Jensen decides to go with gauze and medical tape instead of an oversized Band-Aid. “ _Oz_ is bullshit.”

“Beecher and Keller, though?”

Jensen runs his fingers over Jared’s bicep, up his arm to the injury. Jared’s sick-hot with fever. The skin around the wound is fire red and puffy, but it’s only oozing a little blood now.

“Yeah, even Beecher and Keller.”

“You shouldn’t have ended up in a place like that.” Jared still seems unsteady, but the tremors are gone. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“Yes, I did.” Jensen places the gauze over Jared’s injury and holds it in place with medical tape.

“It’s not like you killed anybody.”

“Not until today.” Jensen feels compelled to point that out, but he can’t find it himself to feel remorse over shooting the man who shot Jared.

“Fuck that guy,” Jared says. “You never killed anybody that didn’t deserve it.”

“No, I didn’t. But I held my gun on some people while I was robbing them blind, robbing the bank blind, whoever.”

“You wouldn’t have pulled the trigger on them.”

“The people on the other end of my gun didn’t know that.”  Jensen shifts his focus to meet Jared’s gaze. “I saw their lives flashing before their eyes. Hell, one time I laughed at some guy who wet himself he was so scared.”

“I thought you were cool.” Jared’s laser focused on Jensen, and he smiles at the memory. “I mean, I didn’t know all that until later, about the armed robberies. But you had fucking swagger for miles.”

“That I did. I’ll tell you a secret.” Jensen leans in even closer, impossibly close, so close their eyelashes almost touch, and watches Jared’s eyes go wide when he whispers. “Maybe I feel bad for the people I hurt, but I’d do it all again.”

Jared blinks. “It’s almost like the great state of Texas didn’t rehabilitate you at all.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“That’s the most I’ve heard you say since.” Jared casts his gaze upward to the ceiling like he’s mulling it over. “Well, ever.”

“That’s because you talk enough for both of us and everybody else who’s still topside.”

Jared moves to punch Jensen in the shoulder but it ends in a weak slap and a pained grunt. “Thanks,” he says. “For telling me all that, I mean. I know you were trying to distract me. It worked.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll be better in the morning.” Jared’s words are slurred with alcohol and blood loss. “We can get back out on the road.”

“No, you need some time. We’re going to stay put for a while.”

——

They move into one of the resort’s small cabins down on the lake. It has its own kitchen and outdoor grill. There’s only one bedroom with one king size bed. They share it and don’t say a word about it.

Jensen intends to keep an eye on Jared anyway. Redress his wound a couple of times a day, make sure nobody comes at him with a gun again. The sleeping arrangement is a simple matter of convenience.

Jared gets over the shock after a day or so and starts talking, even more than usual. He talks like he wants to tell Jensen everything, dump his short life story into the nearest living human and receive that human’s story in return.  Maybe it’s the only way to live on when there’s nobody else around to remember.

With that in mind, Jensen tells his story, too, with less prose and a lot of dark corners left unexamined. Among other things, he talks about his father, how he always resented him for leaving Jensen with a neglectful, inconstant mother and a series of stepfathers. Between both his wandering parents, Jensen doesn’t know how many stepbrothers and sisters he’s had over the years. Jared’s the only one he can remember liking back then, the only one who matters now.

They fall into a routine. During the day, they sit out on the porch, they walk down to the dock and catch fish they grill for lunch and dinner. Every now and then, they’ll see a boat passing by in the distance, but in every way that matters, it’s just the two of them.

By their third night at Shangri-La, sleeping in the bed next to a stronger, healthier Jared starts to feel too much like temptation. On the fourth day, Jensen takes the truck into a nearby town to get the lay of the land and check for supplies.

Jared stays behind, keeping the gun with him for safety, and doesn’t question Jensen’s sudden need to put a little distance between them. He asks Jensen to bring back another radio and whatever books he can find, preferably about war and strategy.

There’s a small lake town nearby called Grove that has a Wal-Mart and a pawn shop. The Wal-Mart has some guns and ammo in the back and the pawn shop has shortwave and CB radios. Jensen snags one of each and breaks into the library for Jared’s books.

He sees a couple of people in the parking lot but they don’t come up to him and Jensen returns the favor.

——

‘ _Keep moving. All will be revealed just a little further on down the road_.’

That’s what the voice says through the shortwave radio the very next day. The CB still just crackles static.

 _Keep moving_. Jensen thinks he’d be pretty content to stay put.

At night, he listens to Jared breathe, feels his heavy warmth next him, and he wants. He could roll over and start something. Jared would say yes. But Jared’s young and dependent on him and somewhere along the line, Jensen seems to have developed a conscience where Jared’s concerned.

In the following days, there are more solo trips into nearby towns. Jensen trades the old truck for a slightly less old Range Rover. He keeps his eyes open for trouble, but he doesn’t find any.

There’s no hum of electricity in the air, nothing mechanical even. Back in prison, it was noisy all the time. Until he got used to it, it nearly drove Jensen crazy. In the cabin with Jared, there’s the static of the radios and the sound of Jared’s voice (he talks about strategy now, and resistance, instead of family trips and high school pranks). Out in the world, by himself, the quiet is eerie.  

The enormity of what’s happened, to the country, to the world, is too much for Jensen to comprehend. But his senses are sharp. He feels that old buzz of danger lurking around every corner and as crazy-horrible as it is, there’s a part of him that kind of likes it.

——

On their eighth night, they sit on the dock, watching the sun set over the low water, and pass a joint between them. Jared found it in a baggy in one of the cabins. They take their time with slow, leisurely puffs, fingers touching with each pass. Jensen doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so sweet and buzzed in his life. 

This might be their last sunset. Each sunrise and each sunset could be the last. That was always true, but it feels more true now.

“I thought about you a lot while you were in prison,” Jared says.

The truth is, Jensen didn’t think about Jared at all, not until the letter came. And he’s glad he didn’t. Glad he didn’t take Jared into that place with him.

He can feel Jared watching him, but Jensen steadfastly refuses to turn his head and meet his gaze. He inhales a shallow puff and stares out at the muddy lake for a good long while before passing the joint back to Jared.

“Is that so, baby brother?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

Suddenly, Jared’s touching him, a light trace of long fingers underneath Jensen’s chin, and turning his head to force eye contact. Jared takes a long drag and tilts his head to the side. He stares at Jensen like it’s a dare and Jensen can’t resist it.

Jared parts his lips to push a cloud of smoke into Jensen’s open mouth. And Jensen drags it into himself on a shaky inhale, like he can keep it there, tasting Jared on the edge of the smoke forever.  

Every part of Jared, the way he holds himself, the way he looks at Jensen’s lips, makes obvious his intention to follow that smoke with a kiss. And it would be so easy, far easier than pulling away. But Jensen does pull away. He doesn’t know where he gets the strength to turn his head and exhale the smoke into the air, but he does. He looks out again over the water as it swallows down the sun.

Jared passes the joint to Jensen and leans back in his chair. “You know why.”

——

Jared’s got a gnarly scar on his shoulder. Jensen catches him moving his collar aside to look at it sometimes. He seems pleased with it. Stupid kid.

Stupid, beautiful kid.

Jared’s sharp and bright. Even though the world’s gone to shit, he still laughs a lot, and loudly. He throws back his head and exposes the long arch of his throat. He’s tan from their time outdoors in the too-warm December sun. And there’s just so much of him. All long, lean muscle and awkward grace.

He’s in desperate need of a haircut, but the messy hair suits him. Jared’s kind of an all around glorious mess, anyway, with his shaggy hair and his perpetually sweaty skin. But he’s sort of beautiful too, with his bedroom eyes, his deep dimples, and a firm jaw still smooth with youth.

And teeth, he probably shows his teeth—all sharp edges and straight, hard lines—more than anybody Jensen’s ever met. Big toothy grins, shy lip-biting smiles.

Jensen wants to be the thing that bites those lips. He wishes Jared’s hands, big and graceful, always in motion, were on him.

He tells himself the reasons are obvious. It’s been a long time. For all intents and purposes, Jared’s the only other living person on earth. Or might as well be.

But it’s not as simple as that.

Jared’s not the type who can hide his emotions. He wants Jensen, too. Hell, he’s practically panting with it. But Jensen made a promise to himself that he intends to keep: protect Jared. If that means protecting Jared from Jensen first, then so be it.

——

Jared’s been furiously scribbling notes in the margins of history books for days. Two weeks in, he looks up from a book about guerilla warfare.

“We need to move on,” he says.

Jensen’s not surprised. Jared talks a lot about what to do next. He knows it’s crazy to rush into Chicago and look for their parents without a plan. Jensen has thought so all along, and Jared’s come around on that point. But he’s not giving up on them.

They need to find allies, Jared’s decided. There could be millions of people out there, people with resources who could help. People who are ready to fight.

If it was up to Jensen, they’d stay. He cares more for Jared’s safety than for finding his father or fighting some enemy he doesn’t know or understand. He hasn’t seen anyone but Jared in days, or heard the man on the radio. Maybe that’s a sign they should stay put and count their lucky stars they’re still alive.

He tells Jared all of this, knowing full well it won’t change his mind.

“It’s time.” There’s a tone of command in Jared’s voice that both annoys Jensen and makes his cock twitch. “We’ll pack up our stuff and leave tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow. I want to pick up some more ammo first, make sure the car’s loaded down with everything we need.”

“All right,” Jared allows. “We’ll get ready tomorrow. But we’re leaving the day after, first thing.”

Jensen needs a cigarette and a minute to himself.  He walks out of the room with an attitude, throwing, “Yes, sir, little General,” over his shoulder.

——

They lay in bed that night, side by side, but not together. Jensen can tell by Jared’s breathing that he’s awake, too. He knows what he could take and how he wants to take it. He sees it in his mind, Jared laid out beneath him, body bare, cock hard and leaking, miles of smooth, tanned skin, needy and responsive. He can hear the moans, feel the rumble of his own voice vibrating along Jared’s skin, _more, baby brother._

After a while, he thinks maybe he should just give in, give Jared what he’s been begging for with every coy, sideways glance, but by then, Jared’s snoring, low and steady.

——

Jared goes on the supply run with Jensen the next morning. There’s not much in the neighboring towns to loot that Jensen hasn’t already taken, but he wants to do another sweep of the area for bullets and batteries.

They’re tense and quiet in the car. Jensen’s still angry they’ll be leaving the cabin the next day on Jared’s command, but he doesn’t say it. He probably doesn’t have to. Jared reads him pretty well.

But Jensen’s anger doesn’t matter because Jared knows by now that if he runs headlong into trouble, Jensen will be right behind him, watching his back and protecting him at all costs. It’s the one thing he can take for granted and Jensen resents him for knowing it.

Maybe Jared is right that it’s time to leave. Standing still may not be the answer. But when Jensen thinks of it, all he sees, again and again, is Jared taking that shot to his shoulder and spinning with the impact.  It could have ended right then and there.

Jensen spends the morning worrying and fuming while they pick through stores and abandoned lake houses. They end up with more supplies than they can possibly take with them.

Jared stands at the front door of some rich asshole’s summer home, and calls back to Jensen. “That’s enough. Let’s head back and start packing the truck.”

More orders, high-handed and fucking imperious. The fact that Jared’s right just pisses Jensen off more. He stalks toward Jared, not knowing himself if he’s going to punch him or pass through the doorway and stomp off to the car in a huff. It could go either way.

Jared’s holding the door open and staring down at his feet. “I’m sorry, Jensen.”  He mumbles the words low enough that Jensen barely hears them.

Sorry for what? He wants to ask. For pissing me off, for ordering me around like a fucking soldier, or for running headlong into the abyss and taking me with you?

But as he passes through the door, Jared looks up and Jensen sees that he’s not all business. There’s a pleading there, a glimpse of the boy who’s barely holding it together.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” Jared says.

And with that, Jensen finally breaks. He can’t stop himself from stepping in close, hand on Jared’s hip, spinning him and pushing him against the door. Not a punch then, and not just passing him by.

Jared watches, wide-eyed with panic, but not in a bad way. Jensen knows what he can take right now. But instead of lunging for the hard, bloody, wild kiss a part of him craves, he puts his arms around Jared and pulls him into a tight embrace, the kind that doesn’t leave any air between them.

Jared slumps into it, his pulse beating so fast and hard Jensen feels it like a vibration. He’s warm. It feels nice, right, to be standing together like this. Like they’re saying goodbye to this little life of theirs on the lake but they’re saying hello to something, too.

He turns his face into Jared’s long neck and inhales the clean smell of him. Jared exhales a breath that heats Jensen’s skin. They stand like that long enough that Jensen feels all his anger and resentment slip away. The fear he holds onto. He needs it to stay sharp.

He raises a hand to cradle the back of Jared’s head and keep him in place even though it’s not necessary. Jared’s not going anywhere. Jared’s arms squeeze him tight, holding him impossibly closer. Jared’s cock is hard against Jensen’s stomach and they both breathe hard.   

Jensen pulls back to rub his cheek against Jared’s. He needs that touch. He presses their foreheads together and looks into Jared’s eyes, standing up on his tip-toes while Jared slides down the wall to meet him. Jared’s watchful and waiting and Jensen kisses him then, soft and slow.

He licks a line across Jared’s lips but doesn’t open them, nips at him with his teeth, but not hard. And when Jared opens his mouth, Jensen doesn’t plunder it. He takes it nice and slow.

Pulling back with an effort, Jensen looks at Jared’s plump, moist lips. He can’t help pushing his index finger into Jared’s mouth. A tremor passes between them when Jared closes his lips around it and sucks it in, licks it with his tongue. He opens his mouth for more and Jensen fucks his middle finger in as well, watching while Jared takes and takes.

Jensen’s tongue is going to be in that mouth again. His cock, too. He knows that now. He’s going to feel that tongue on every part of his body before this whole godforsaken world comes to an end.

——

They’re about two miles from Shangri-La, Jared’s hand resting on Jensen’s leg, when they hear the first explosion. It’s far enough away that it could be anything and strong enough that the car shakes with the aftershock.

Jared cranes his neck to look out the windows while Jensen lays on the gas.

“Where did that come from?” Jared asks as another loud boom sounds in the distance.

“No telling. Doesn’t sound close.”

There are three more loud booms before they make it to the cabin and step out of the car. They listen for more, but it’s quiet. Out in the distance, on the other side of the lake, they see black smoke rising.

“Let’s get inside,” Jensen says.

They spend a tense hour listening for more explosions and being met by silence when the voice comes over the shortwave radio in the kitchen.

‘ _Wherever you are, settle in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride_.’

“Do you ever think he might be one of them?” Jared asks. “With the HDA, like a plant to lure us in?”

Jensen thinks that he’s getting all too used to the world as it is. He thinks of flickering lights on the highway and car fires, and empty towns.

“I don’t know if it matters either way.”

“It used to be easy to reach people and now all we have is this one voice out of nowhere,” Jared says. “The world is so much bigger than it used to be.”

——

It’s dusk before they hear another explosion. It seems closer this time, like a rolling earthquake under their feet. Then another.

They go to the porch and see the next one blazing across the horizon, a big ball of fire crashing to earth. It’s distant enough that they don’t see its landing but they hear distant sirens go off. They could be from anywhere, could be an echo from miles away.

There’s nothing to say. Nothing to do but wait it out. They could leave and fall right into the path of one of those things or stay and face the same fate.

It’s not as if there’s a bomb shelter nearby. They consider going to the basement of the main building, but if a bomb hits there, they’d just be trapped beneath the rubble. So they stay in their little cabin on the lake.

Sitting in the kitchen, forcing down peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, they hear the man’s voice again, out of breath and talking fast through bad radio reception.

‘ _Intelligence reports from the front lines, compatriots. The bombs are just getting started. Tonight’s the night_.’

“Great,” Jensen mutters.

‘ _Are you ready for your last night on earth?_ ’

Jared leans against the counter and rolls his eyes. “How about no, cryptic radio guy.”

——

Bombs sound off in the distance, and sirens, and bombs again.

Jensen and Jared take turns in the bathroom and meet to stand on either side of the bed. They strip down bare before climbing under the covers, face to face on their sides, all under the rave-blue glow of the camping lantern, all in comfortable silence.

It’s Jared who reaches out first, tentatively. Jensen’s hand is resting on the mattress between them and Jared traces his fingers over it, then up Jensen’s arm, tracking the line of Celtic tribal tattoos. Jensen got the design when he was about Jared’s age. He doesn’t know what the symbols represent, if anything.

He didn’t put much thought into his tatts back then, but he still likes the sharp lines and the curves of the ink that winds its way up his forearm to his bicep. He likes the way Jared’s gaze always flickers there. And he especially likes the way his flesh warms at Jared’s touch as he traces the lines.

Jared’s fingers travel to Jensen’s shoulder, across Jensen’s neck and chest, where black ink ravens take flight from the image of a gnarled, barren tree that takes up a lot of real estate on Jensen’s right side, from his hip to his chest.

The press of Jared’s fingers over his body is soft then firm and soft again. He traces a circle around Jensen’s nipple and licks his lips. His breath is loud in the room and Jensen feels it against his face. Jensen closes his eyes and rolls onto his back.

Jared presses his palm, flat and firm, on Jensen’s belly. He spreads out his long fingers and rakes his smooth, short fingernails through Jensen’s coarse pubic hair, stopping short of wrapping them around Jensen’s cock like Jensen wants to beg him to do.

Instead Jared presses a quick kiss to Jensen’s one prison tat, a simple compass a couple of inches above his heart. He slides his hand back up Jensen’s chest to trace the ink his lips just left, north-south-east and west.  

“You know it’s not the age thing, right?” Jared murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“The reason you hold back. It’s not because I’m younger than you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so.” Jared kisses him quick, with open lips. Then again. “You’d hook up with any other random nineteen-year old twink and not think twice about it.”

He has a point.

“And it’s not because we’re stepbrothers.” Jared moves his hand lower, over Jensen’s stomach again, and this time he does graze Jensen’s cock with his fingers, but he still doesn’t take him in hand the way Jensen wants.

“Really?”

“Really.” Jared nuzzles his nose into Jensen’s neck, just under his jawline. “We weren’t even raised together.”

“All right. What is it then?”

“For a while, I thought you just weren’t into me.”

That’s one opinion that Jensen can’t let stand. He brings his hands up to hold Jared’s face between them and kisses him. He slides his tongue into Jared’s mouth and takes and takes and takes until he’s dizzy with it and Jared’s panting, his big cock pressing into Jensen’s hip.

“Guess that’s not the problem.” Jared’s smiling and breathless.

In a quick, decisive motion, Jensen rolls Jared onto his back, and presses down on him. He kisses him again, hard and demanding.

Jared’s kisses must be truth serum because Jensen doesn’t intend to, but he breathes out, into Jared’s open mouth, “I’m not good enough for you.”

Jared looks up at Jensen, eyes wide with surprise. He shakes his head and runs his hands down Jensen’s back.

“Jensen, that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true and I don’t want to get into it,” Jensen says. “I’ve done very bad things.”

“And I’m Saint Jared.”

Jensen shifts and grinds down, pressing their cocks together. “Definitely not a saint.”

With that, Jensen pushes Jared’s legs wide and slides down that long body, relishing in the hard friction of his skin on Jared’s skin. He places a pillow under Jared’s hips and pushes his knees up and Jared’s laughing, but he’s not stopping Jensen from arranging his body however he wants.

Jensen kisses Jared’s cock, just the tip, and feels the moisture of Jared’s pre-come on his lips. He licks a stripe down Jared and hums against his balls. When he drops his head to lick a wet circle around Jared’s hole, testing and loosening it, he feels Jared shift to look down at him. Jared’s muscles clench and shake beneath him. When he works his tongue out into a point and pushes into Jared, so warm and earthy, Jared practically jumps off the bed.

Then Jared’s hands are in his hair, petting and scratching. “Jensen,” he breathes. “Jensen. Wait.”

Jensen pulls himself away long enough to look up.

“Please. Please.” Jared growls and throws his head back on the pillow.

“What? Tell me.”

“God, Jensen.” And he grabs Jensen by the head, by the shoulder, scratches a line across his shoulders. “Just fuck me already.”

Jensen doesn’t need to be told twice.

He presses his mouth to Jared’s cock in a quick, aimless motion as he rises to his knees and makes his way up the mattress, over Jared’s long, lean body. Jared, hardly subtle, placed a bottle of lube right on the nightstand days before. Jensen grabs it now and flips open the cap, pouring a good amount into his hand even as he falls over Jared, bodies aligned, Jared’s legs still splayed open and waiting. 

Jensen reaches down and circles Jared’s still spit-slicked hole. Watches Jared watching him while he slides his finger in, nice and slow and smooth.

Jared’s blissed out, warm and slow and lazy with it. There’s a heaviness in his voice. “Always had a crush on you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jensen teases him.

He pushes in a second finger and works Jared open with more patience than the situation should allow. And he can’t resist a sweet, quick kiss, the lingering of his cheek against Jared’s, breathing him in and nipping at his chin, licking a line up Jared’s long, graceful neck. He reaches for a condom and Jared helps him roll it on with shaky hands, his smile wide and reckless.

Then Jensen is back at Jared’s mouth for the kind of deep, wet kiss that he’s hardly got the patience for but somehow can’t resist.  Jensen adjusts himself downward and angles Jared’s hips, all with shaky intensity.

Sirens sound in the distance, and there’s noise coming from outside their little cabin that could be a train or a tornado or bombs falling, but none of it matters. All they have is each other. All Jensen can see or feel is Jared. The only thing he fears is losing him. Somewhere in the insanity, the world has burned away clean, purging everything but Jared, giving Jensen a clarity he never imagined.

Jared said the world is bigger now, and that may be so. For Jared. Jensen’s world is small, it’s focused, and it’s elemental.

Only Jared.

And if the world ends tonight, that’s all it’ll ever be and more than he thought to ask for.

Only Jared, he thinks as he pushes into him, slowly and gently, barely holding himself up on shaky arms. He looks into Jared’s eyes, dark and big in the low light, feels Jared’s sweat on his skin, he listens to the sounds of Jared urging him on, pulling Jensen in with desperate little scratches to his back.

Jensen pushes in and holds himself there. He feels Jared’s body tense as he adjusts to all of Jensen inside of him, then relax and surge again when Jensen works a hand up to stroke Jared’s cock.

“Yes, yes, oh, God,” Jared cries out.  

Jensen’s finding it hard to breathe. He takes Jared in long, slow strokes, then fast, rough ones. He watches Jared lose control and come with jolts that rock his whole body and thinks again, only Jared.  

——

They finish in silence, lying on their backs next to one another, catching their breath, only their hands touching. The explosions have stopped, but the sirens still wail in the distance.

“Talk about going out with a bang,” Jared says. Because of course that’s what Jared says.

“As far as I can tell, we’re still here.”

Jared laughs and rolls toward Jensen, kissing his chest and laying his head against it, throwing his long arms across Jensen’s body. Jensen pulls him in close because cuddling is apparently a thing he does now.

Jared props his chin on Jensen’s chest and looks up at him. “You know you’re mine, right?”

It’s the only thing Jensen does know.

“Yeah.”

——

By morning, the sirens have stopped and the world has returned to its new natural quiet. No cell phones, no TVs, no buzz of electricity.  They stay in bed for a while, curled up together. Jared’s a bony, muscly, leggy heating blanket turned up to ten and Jensen’s going to have to get used to it.

At noon, they pack up the car and take one last walk down to the dock before heading to Saint Louis. It’s the next stop on the map. Jared wants to try out the shortwave radio there, see if they can find anyone who is willing to talk, willing to fight.

There’s a fog of smoke rolling out low over the lake, and the smell of fire in the air, but Jensen feels better about his chances than he has in years. They survived the night. And now they’ll survive today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. They’ll survive until they don’t.  Life and death seem to matter so much more than they used to.

They make their way back to the car, hand in hand, as a light rain begins to fall.

~The End~


End file.
